The Journal
by Rita's-wrtings
Summary: In the first war with Lord Voldemort, Barty Crouch made it legal to imprision suspected Death Eaters in Azkaban without tiral. Alfred Quiller, a journalist for the Daily Prophet, finds himself a victum to this.
1. Chapter 1

1October 29, 1981

I'd heard of it before — people getting chucked into Azkaban without trial. Of course I'd heard, it's in the _Prophet _at least once a week! But I never thought of it too carefully. You can't be a journalist if you take everything to heart, think deeply about every story you write. It starts to tear you up inside if you do, until you're too much of a mess to write. This time it cost me though; I hadn't thought of the people thrown into Azkaban without trial, and now I've become one of them.

I'm still in awe that I managed to sneak this journal in, not to mention at least four pens to write with. Wizards don't realize how useful pens can be when you don't have time for ink and a quill. I didn't think they'd be of any use to me before I started my story on the contrasts and similarities between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds a few months ago. I'm glad I did, too. I _needed _that project. The whole bloody war is about the differences between Muggles and wizards, between blood. I _ needed_ to understand that difference before I could write about the war. And it's ironic, because I discovered that there's barely a difference at all. In short, we are all people.

In a way, the Muggle prisons are sometimes more secure than the wizard ones. The perfect example is how incredibly simple it was for me to hide this journal from them. You see, before you enter Azkaban, they check your robes and clothing for anything remotely magical — charms, curses, spells — or anything inside them that could hold magical properties. And of course they check your pockets, but not as carefully as the Muggles. I suppose there isn't a reason for a _wizard _to sneak a gun or a blade into the prison. What would they do with it, lunge at a dementor and cut its throat?

You see, I did a simple trick. My robes have two layers of fabric. All I had to do was cut a slit in one and make a pocket, slip the journal and pens into the hole, and sew it back up with a needle and thread. No magic needed. I admit though, that when I first stepped foot onto the grimy dirt of this island, I was terrified they would discover it and take it away. I didn't care about causing myself trouble for it; I was already being sent to prison, how much more trouble could I get into? No, I just didn't want them to take my journal. I can't lose my ability to write. If I can no longer form words, that's when I'll know I've lost my sanity. I pray that never happens.

I'm not sure why I thought writing will keep me sane. Perhaps it's the same principal as those who scratch marks on the walls to keep track of time. It keeps them aware of reality.

I am paranoid. I fear the dementors somehow sensing the journal. It seems foolish, I realize, but one can't help it. I am choosing to leave the journal alone for the rest of the day. There is still much to write, but I want to save it. I need to leave something to write about for the next five years.

October 30, 1981

The one thing that I never truly investigated for my story about the contrast of between the Muggle and Wizarding worlds was the Azkaban guards — the dementors. I had always said it was because I wasn't allowed in the prison, but it was a lie. In reality, I didn't want to be anywhere near the place. I've told you, you can't be a reporter if you take everything to heart. I was afraid that the dementors would take me too far.

Now I wish I had gone. If nothing else, it would have prepared me for this. I can't begin to describe these dark creatures to you in mere words. The worst is when they bring your meal. They have to come into the room to place the food down. First the edge of your vision grows dark and clouded, and you feel as though the air in your lungs came from the foulest winter storm. You don't come to the realization of how on edge you are until you hear the door knob clank open, and you jolt. The door slowly creaks open, and as your eyes meet the cloaked figure, you find yourself drowning in memories — horrid memories I never suspected i would be forced to relive. I don't know how long it was before remembered clearly where I was.

I hope with every fiber of my body that I truly didn't commit the crime I was imprisoned for. I certainly don't remember it. Up until now it has been a huge blank in my past. But the dementors fill in the gap. I don't want to write about it. Not now.

The journalist in me still thrives; I see details to write of in every crevice in the wall and every moan heard from the other cells. There are rumors of avoiding insanity within Azkaban's walls. They say you need to cling to the difference between the past and present between memories and reality. My theory is that if I can write these details down, I will know the difference.

When I first started my job for the _Prophet_,my boss told me, "The best writers can describe the indescribable in utmost detail." This is my goal.

October 31, 1981

It is Halloween, and I, Alfred Quiller, am spending it the day locked away in cell 712 of Azkaban prison. Ha! What better place to experience true fear?

I never had a girlfriend, you know. Not since Hogwarts. Obviously I haven't got a wife or kids, and my family died — well, all my family but my brother Derek. My point is that there's really no one that will miss me today, miss my company. Now I wish I had been closer to Derek, arrogant smirk and ego included. I realize it sounds selfish, but it would comfort me to know that _someone_ out in the real world is worried about me.

Now that I stop to think of it, I wonder what Derek thought when he first heard about my crime. _How_ did he hear? Perhaps he hasn't even heard at all — got too caught up in his own work to think about the rest of the world. But surely he still reads the _Daily Prophet_...

Derek and I never got along. I thought him to be too egotistical, while he thought me too cliché. Not to mention that I was older than him; I'm sure he gained an inferiority complex from that. He invented new potions for a living — worked for himself and only himself — while I worked for the Ministry. He must have grown to be that way out of spite; our parents were rather boring, even I admit it. But I never complained. They were still marvelous parents.

Is it possible that he is so disgusted at me for "following the crowd" that he really doesn't care? I've tried hard to imagine how _I _would feel if it was Derek imprisoned in Azkaban without trial, and _I _was the one reading about it in the _Prophet_. I'm still not sure though.

Am I allowed any visitors? Probably not, because of the war. Pity.

November 1, 1981

Dawn still has not broken, and I am awake because of an uproar that arose at some point in the night. I could feel it in the air, added to the dementors: I could feel it in the air, the sensation mixing with the effects of the dementors' presence: a panicked feeling, as though something was about to happen. Anticipation. Then a whimper. Someone was whimpering, though not out of fear as much as shock. Gasps could be heard down the corridor, and as they grew louder, I knew something strange was happening that hadn't happened before.

"It's gone!" a man finally shrieked, admitting his confusion. Others followed with horrified remarks such as "where is it?" and "it's never disappeared like this!"

I didn't understand it until a woman's high-pitched scream cut through the other voices: "The Dark Lord's mark has vanished!"

What does this mean?


	2. Chapter 2

**November 1, 1981**

I really do despise this cell. Everything's closed in by concrete walls except for a small barred window on the door, and you have to stand up to see anything out of it. It wouldn't be so bad if there was something to _look_ at — bricks, tiles, anything you can count... I'd count the number of pages in this journal if I didn't already know the answer. 500. I even thought of tearing a few out so I _wouldn't_ know, and then I could count them to find out. But I don't want to waste pages.

It really is a nice journal, you know — bound with black leather and my own initials engraved on the front. The paper inside almost resembles parchment; it's brown and stiff with no lines on it at all. It looks like it should have some out of a museum or the hands a philosopher.

You'd think I'd have more to write about, considering that You-Know-Who is gone. Or dead. Something. At any rate, it happened last night according to rumor: You-Know-Who tried to kill the Longbottoms, but when he tried to kill their baby, the spell backfired or something ridiculous like that. Rumors in Azkaban can't be accurate. I also heard something about the Porters. And Sirius Blank was somehow involved.

I thought Black was on our side. But he's in the cell across from mine today.

I think I know why I haven't got that much to write about: I'm not writing any of these rumors down. That's all they are, rumors. I never write down rumors. Only facts.

I'm waiting for one of those damn guards — the human ones — to walk by so I can ask them what truly happened to You-Know-Who.

**November 2, 1981**

A slightly more realistic version: You-Know-Who killed the Potters, and the spell backfired on their one year old son. I know because I asked Black, and he nearly yelled my ear off correcting me. No guards came by yesterday or today, so I couldn't ask them. I thought that Black would be my best bet, considering he should be half-way sane compared to the other prisoners. But I'm not even sure of that; he snarled out everything he said to me, his eyes bulging and his knuckles white from clutching the bars to the door window too tightly.

I remembered then Black's position in the war, what he was last known for: he was the Potter's secret keeper. Made an awful lot of publicity about it too. So that's why he's here. He must be the reason You-Know-Who found the Potters.

I turned back to my own cell, deciding I had the most coherent information I would gain from Black. But Black called out to me, his voice no longer shouting, but desperate and hollow. "I didn't betray them!" he croaked.

I turned back to him, and it was at that moment when I noted the color of his eyes. They are grey. Grey eyes are easy to read. That's why I like mine, brown and unreadable. It helps me to keep a strait face.

His eyes weren't lying. He was telling the truth.

But knowing whether or not he's fibbing doesn't help me at all. What was he telling the truth _about_? Was it the Potters he didn't betray or the Death Eaters? You-Know-Who is dead, and I'm sure some Death Eaters must consider Black a traitor, murderer of their Dark Lord.

"I believe you," I told him. I didn't desire an explanation from him, a twisted and exaggerated tail of the truth in his own favor. No matter what source you get, they are all twisted in that way, some more than others. I will think for myself instead and remain unbiased.

**November 3, 1981**

There are torches aligning the walls of the corridor that are put out at night, and I can't decide whether I love or hate this. On one hand, this is Azkaban — the prisoners desire no more darkness than can already be found. On the other, I'm convinced that without them, I wouldn't be able to tell when the day ends and night begins.

Would it be too much to ask for a window? One measly window. It needn't be large — simply big enough to see out of, to confirm that the rest of the world, the sky, and the earth still exist. Has it rained since I've been imprisoned here? Would I have heard thunder if it stormed?

I suppose I would. After all, I heard a dog howling last night. Poor creature, to be brought by its master to such a place.

I am slowly becoming more and more alarmed that I can't remember why I was sentenced to Azkaban in the first place. Did I even know why before I came, or am I already becoming mad?

Are people aware when they are insane? An expert would say no, of course not. But who are the experts to say they know what goes through any human's mind? Unless they have gone insane and then been healed to tell their tale, I don't believe anyone has the right to say they know.

I came to the suddenly realization this morning that I probably _will_ go mad before I am released. I'm angry that I didn't see this technicality before: there are only 500 pages in the journal. 365 days in a year. 5 years. Numbers, numbers! I was never good at Arithmancy. But simple logic kicks in, and I see that even if I use the front and back of each page, this raggedy bundle of paper and ink won't last five years.

365 days in a year

X 5

1825 days in prison

1000 pages front and back

Maybe I can stall insanity by going back and reading each entry — one a day. That should give me enough time...but will it work?

I heard somewhere that insane people can't do math. Sounded like a load of rubbish at the moment, but right now I'd love to believe it true.

**November 4, 1981**

A guard — a human guard — walked by my cell today, and when I asked him about You-Know-Who, he responded, "Why d'you want to know? Interested in what happened to your master?" Oh, the fury that evoked within me! And for more than one reason! A guard walking by had been my hope and obsession for the past three torturous days, and he cast me aside like an unpleasant bug that perched on his shoulder! Secondly, I am not, and never will be, a Death Eater! The Death Eaters were about being pure of blood, free from Muggles or Muggle blood, and I certainly do not agree that blood purity is something to fight a war over.

Then again... I hadn't thought of it before... I don't remember why I was sentenced here... _Surely_ I would remember becoming a Death Eater though...

Black! I will ask Black who it was he didn't betray, the Potters or the Death Eaters! If it was the Potters he told me he didn't betray, that must mean he thinks I was on the Ministry's side! And if it was the Death eaters he didn't betray, he must think me to be a Death Eater! His voice, so hollow, so desperate — he was seeking acceptance from me. All I need to know is what side he was on! At least, I need to know what side he wants me to _believe_ he was on.

It will be highly ironic if I _am_ a Death Eater; I am writing with a ball point pen.

**November 5, 1981**

The Potters. Black claims not to have betrayed the Potters.

I am relieved.

He wouldn't tell me at first, and I can't say as I blame him; I told him I believed him, and when I asked who it was he didn't betray two days later, he realized I was deceiving him. My guess is that if we were anywhere but here, he never would have told me at all. I was right though; Black desires acceptance from me. I don't know if it's because I seem sane to him compared to the other prisoners or because he knows I'm not a Death Eater. More probable, however, is that I'm the only person whose face he can actually see.

He called me Alfred at one point in our conversation. I still call him Black.


End file.
